Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(114)

Alexander’s expression told Penelope he could happily shoot them all then and there, but he gestured for one of the lackeys to go to an arched window and pull open the casement.

Noise poured to them from the city below. Faintly Penelope could hear Titus’s cries, but over that was a pulsing sound, like a heartbeat, a chant from thousands of throats.

Damien, Damien, Damien, Damien.

“I might have inherited the title of Imperial Prince through the death of my father,” Damien said. “But I rule by will of the people.”

“I will not let you have Nvengaria,” Alexander said angrily. “I won’t let you destroy it.”

Damien regarded him without heat. “If you kill me, if you harm Penelope, they will never let you survive it.”

Alexander moved his gaze toward the windows, his chest rising with his sharp breath. He was furious, but his anger was not mad or mindless. His rage was clear and intelligent—he saw exactly what was wrong and sought only to put it right.

“Perhaps if—” Penelope began, then broke off and screamed when the soldier at the window cried out and fell backward, his face red with blood.

“What the hell?” Egan asked in alarm and drew his knife.

They poured in through the window, at least twenty of them, fast, dark, and snakelike, moving with speed the eye could not match. One moment they were not there, the next they simply were, surrounding the room in a perfect ring, trapping the guards, Alexander and Penelope, Damien and his friends.

They became men, tall and hugely muscled, but they hadn’t been men a moment ago. Each had black hair tangling to his shoulders, each was covered in only an animal skin slung across his hips. Their faces were man-shaped but slightly narrower in the jaw, and their eyes were dark blue.

“Logosh,” Penelope exclaimed. “They’re logosh.”

Egan broke into a harsh laugh. “I’ll be damned. Wulf didn’t fetch his mum, he fetched his dad, and all his dad’s friends. Damien, lad, you are one lucky sod.”

“It was not luck,” Damien returned.

Penelope gaped at him, realizing. “You told Wulf to find them.”

Damien nodded, a glint in eyes as blue as the logosh’s. “I thought I might need an army of my own for a successful return to the throne.”

The soldiers stared at the logosh, faces ashen with fear. They might never have seen logosh before, but they knew what they were and of what logosh were capable.

One logosh who stood by the window said in thick Nvengarian, “We serve the princess.”

Damien opened his hands and smiled at Alexander with his old charm. “I would think hard before hurting Penelope in any way. These are her retainers. The Princess and the Logosh. You know the legend?”

Alexander spoke as though the words were wrenched out of him with reluctance. “The princess healed the logosh and won his undying loyalty, and that of his tribe.”

“Ah, so you do read fairy tales,” Damien said. “That is what our people want—the legends. The reforms will get done. Life changes, I know that, and we must adapt. But the legends are forever.”

“She is not really the princess,” Alexander said in a hard voice. “She is a sham.”

“Do you think that matters?” Damien asked, his words cool. “There was a story, and now it has come true. Our people need that. They need her.”

“No, they need me,” Alexander snarled.

“Penelope, go to the window,” Damien said in a gentle tone. “Greet your subjects. See.”

Grasping her skirts in her shaking hands, Penelope clicked to the window, passing between two of the nearly unclothed, very strong logosh. They did not bow to her or smile, they simply turned as she passed, fixing their strange eyes on her.

Penelope pulled back the half-open casement and looked out.

The wall of the castle dropped straight down to the city. The precipice was sheer, fifty feet or so high—the logosh had climbed straight up it. At the bottom the Nvengarians spread through the streets, a mass of color and noise.

When those below saw Penelope, they went mad with joy. The chanting of Damien’s name faded to be replaced by a tumult of cheering, a wave of gladness that swamped her. Penelope lifted her hand to the crowd, and the cheering increased.

Penelope half turned and held out her hand. “Damien.”

Damien came to her, his Nvengarian medals clinking, his dark hair dusty, his chin unshaven. He looked much as he had when Penelope had first met him—a charming, handsome gentleman who’d swept her off her feet and kissed her in Holden’s Meadow.

Damien stepped to the window. Screams and cheers floated to them, banners waved. Damien cupped Penelope’s face in his hand, leaned down, and kissed her.

She heard Titus’s cry and the crowd’s response, but she felt only Damien’s hungry kiss. She laced one hand around his neck, rising to his mouth.

Behind them in the room, Egan abruptly said, “Bloody hell—stop him!”

Penelope broke the kiss and jerked around in time to see one of the soldiers draw his pistol and level it at Damien.

The pistol flashed, powder exploding, but Damien was already sending Penelope to the floor. He landed on her as the bullet crashed into the glass. A moment later, the logosh attacked.

Penelope heard men screaming and the logosh’s high-keening shrieks. A very small logosh skimmed in through the open window, as enraged and frenzied as the others.